


Death is the Greatest Aphrodisiac

by SecretAgentCodenameBob



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Craven Edge is rather seductive, Murder, Other, Self-Denial, What if Grog went dark, lying, slight AU in terms of canon storyline, veers off after Cindergrove Revisited, we need more Craven Edge stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6979156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretAgentCodenameBob/pseuds/SecretAgentCodenameBob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With every passing day Grog is slipping further and further; away from his friends, his family and his morality. Yet despite this slowly dawning truth Grog has always thought Craven Edge has been holding something back from him. One night, he finds out just what that is. </p><p>The consequences of this discovery are far more dangerous than anyone could have ever predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is the Greatest Aphrodisiac

Grog had always been a simple creature.

As a child if he wanted to eat something, drink something, take something the only thing that would stop him was another Herd member's gluttony. His strength was the only limit to his desires, Kevdak taught him that. Life after the Herd seemed much the same and travelling with Vox Mochina only reinforced this belief: the most important thing in the world was strength.

So, when Grog came into possession of a sword which allowed him to drink the very strength of his enemies with each blow he came to a very simple conclusion. That sword was _his_.

Still, even at the back of his mind there was a pesky, niggling voice which whispered that the others wouldn’t like it. A talking blade which craved blood and had been wielded by the oh-so-evil Lord Briarwood; not to mention the fact it also had a bit of a shadow motif going on. The Whitestone decable seemed a little too raw for his companions.

But even while the others had sputtered over their moral compasses and ethical trappings, Grog had just found the whole excursion in Whitestone quite fun. Vox Mochina whispered their doubts behind Percy’s back and all Grog thought was that Percy's shadows looked cool. Intimidating. 

He hadn't batted an eyelid when Percy told him to tear some man's tongue out. He'd been a torturer, part of the people's oppression - why they'd all got so worked up about it was a mystery to him. They were being the heroes, who cared who died on the way.

Bizarrely it had felt as if for the first time Grog was finally let off the leash.

He'd relished every second.

Maybe that was why Percy gave him the sword in the first place. Because he knew that really Grog and Percy were not as un-alike as appearances would suggest. Perhaps he saw in Grog a fellow spirit, a soul with a penchant for corruption. After all, both men worked in weapons and methods of destruction, albeit through different approaches. But their heart for death was the same.

Maybe Percy was lonely. Or maybe it was yet another experiment, taken up on a whim. Curiosity and a blasé devil may care attitude which simply wanted to see how this one played itself out. _Your secret is safe with my indifference_.

Whatever the reason, trying to think about it made Grog's head hurt. So, instead he didn't. He just enjoyed his shiny new toy. He knew he would have to be smart about it- no, not ‘smart’. Grog wasn’t smart but he could be cunning. So, going against every instinct in his body, Grog decided to be careful.

Of course it was Vax who started to voice his concerns first, do-goody little prick that he was.

Vax and Grog being at odds was never a great surprise. Vax was precision, planning, devil in the details. Grog was all instinct and rage, bloodlust and brutality. Despite Vax's affinity for the shadows his heart was far more rooted in the light than Grog's had ever been. Unsurprising then, that it should be Vax who would warn Pike. Vax who would be the first to truly voice concerns over Grog's new "behaviour". Vax with whom he would almost come to blows with about the whole situation.

Vax was family, just like everyone else in Vox Machina, just like his old Herd. But even in his Herd there had been people whose teeth he would’ve really loved to smash in.

But this sword, Craven Edge, a sword whose approval he could win... That was exciting. “Craven Edge” - even the name tasted like bloodlust on his lips. He had a companion in death now, someone who truly understood the call of battle. How could he not be seduced?

And oh, when he had first killed with it. Standing in the throne room, a traitor’s head rolling at his feet, every eye on him, his triumph a public one. Just remembering that sensation, the ecstasy of a thousand induced bloodlusts captured and diluted into a single moment sent delicious shivers racing through his skin.

 _Now you and I see eye to eye_.

They truly did. 

With each new kill, each thrust of the beautiful onyx blade he felt a gratification he normally needed to find in a whorehouse. Yet, this....this was different. Paradoxically more intimate. The moments he could hardly breathe from the pulsing strength coursing through his veins. The smooth, rippling whisper of congratulation which caressed the inside of his mind. Silky smooth satisfaction, dripping with a lazy pleasure.

He just wanted more and more and _more_. Rapture in its purest form. Potent and bottled.

 _Death is the greatest aphrodisiac_. 

He is sure he heard Percy say something like that when working on his guns, another sharp quip which for some reason stuck in Grog’s head like his axe in a skull.

That was what the cool voice would whisper each night. Grog wasn't sure when he had first started hearing the sword in moments when it was sheathed. But somehow it had reached a point where falling asleep without those murmurs in his mind, sweet nothings which filled his mouth with the dark tastes of iron and salt, was nigh impossible. Each night held the intoxicating aftertaste of the day's battle and each morning he felt fire singing in his veins.

Craven Edge was always at his side. Where his bed lay cold, the vacant space of where a woman used to sleep now rested the dark instrument of death.

Grog tried to remember the last woman he'd had. What with the Briarwoods, then struggles in Emon and the Chroma Conclave....things had gotten out of hand quickly. Yet, it was to Grog's surprise that he realised he had hardly noticed the difference. 

The thought of that perturbed him a little. When he asked Percy about any 'houses of entertainment' in Whitestone, just after Vex's close brush with death, it had been more out of duty than anything else. Talking to Craven Edge in that cramped stall with Scanlan so close outside...well, he needed to keep up appearances. With the world falling apart he just wanted something familiar, something normal.

The little smile Percy had given him had been far too knowing, as if he could read Grog's thoughts (simple may they be). 

He never did find that whore-house. Part of him wondered if his overwhelming apathy at that should worry him. It was a small part.

Whenever Pike sent him a doubtful, concerned look Grog could just tell himself that there was nothing to worry about. It was easy to believe because he told himself that so often. So what if he liked to carry the blade with him at all times, liked to rest his hand on the hilt which seemed to meld itself into his fingers perfectly, liked the comforting low hum that thrummed away at the back of his mind. It didn’t mean anything. Besides, not like it was possessing him or anything.

Maybe if Pike had journeyed with them more frequently, if she hadn't been stranded across the ocean on a different continent or desperately required in Whitestone Grog might have been forced to confront this change in him. But she was. So, whenever someone asked if he was okay he could genuinely tell them 'yes, nothing is wrong, why would something be wrong?' - and believe it himself.

No one could fault Grog for being honest.

Yet, despite the glorious thrills of battle, despite everything that a sentient sword could make him feel Grog had the strong feeling that there was still something... _more_. More to experience, more that Craven Edge could show him. Yes, the blade had never been full before (and he most definitely intended on being the first to ever accomplish such a feat) but he felt that there was something it was holding back.

He asked the sword about it a few times. In the midst of battle when no one could hear, in the dark solitude of his room - he always gained the same smug response. 

_That is something only you can find out, Grog. You will know when the time comes._

It is several weeks later, after Vasselheim, after the Sunken Tomb, after returning to Whitestone when the time does come. And Grog finally understands.

///

It's late. And cold. Sunset was hours ago and the warm crackling of the hearth back at their lodgings seems a lifetime removed from the present. Grog is used to freezing conditions yet that doesn't mean he ever really enjoys them. It is a reminder of home, of the Herd, of a history which is one of the only things which can make his heart beat faster from fear not anger.

Grog is walking through the streets of some town. It's name is unimportant. Walking may be the wrong term for what Grog is actually doing - stalking is probably more apt.

His prey - because that's what the hooded man fifty feet in front of him is; prey - slowly picks up the pace after casting a third furtive glance over his shoulder. Grog grins. Good. He's finally realised he's being followed.

The man rounds a corner, ducking into a side alley. Grog grin splits into a dark chuckle. Bad move. If he'd kept going, decided to enter a crowded inn, a public space he might have escaped. Too bad. Now the fun could begin.

Vox Mochina is on a reconnaissance mission - whatever "reconnaissance" means. After learning all they could in Pyrah they had continued on in that continent, searching for information. Information about dragons, about Sphinx, about vestibules or whatever they were called. Only earlier that day he'd watched as Vax had carried out an interrogation (not as lingering as he'd have liked it but it was pretty brutal all the same) and had failed to gain any intelligence required. A wasted day tracking and planning - all for nothing.

Surprisingly they'd dejectedly decided to leave their frustrations for the night rather than rushing into anything else without leap. Find more leads tomorrow, after recovering spells and all that. Grog had been the only one to argue against that decision.

He had spent the day cooped up, frustrated, unable to do anything and like hell was he about to waste time. Scanlan had suggested getting some lady favours to try and make up for lost day. The thought had twisted something in Grog's stomach - he didn't want to fuck something, he wanted to kill, to render, to tear out flesh with his teeth.

His bubbling rage had actually surprised him. Maybe it was because they'd been on the road for so long with no opportunity to release his pent up anger. Or maybe it was because of that dull ache in his stomach, something festering, something...hungry.

_Don’t forget, I hunger always._

The word had sparked a memory in his mind, a conversation. A command. But it was gone in an instant. Turning down Scanlan's offer had prompted a frown from the gnome, but the smaller man had simply shrugged and gone alone.

Once out of sight Grog had reached for Craven Edge (something that was becoming a habit of late) and ran his thumb across the blade. He barely felt the cut, nerve endings so ruined the pain hardly registered. But he _had_ heard the short, grateful gasp at the back of his mind, felt a shiver which encompassed his whole body. Anticipation.

“Don’t worry, you won't go hungry tonight. I promise.”

That same anticipation runs through his skin now. Grog breaks into a quick jog, moving faster than any creature his size should be able to. Vax may be nigh-invisible but Grog is _fast_. With one final check Grog ensures no one sees him go into the alleyway before he makes his decision.

He almost laughs out loud. The alley is a dead end, rotten barrels and splintered boxes lining the stone wall, blocking off any exits. This was just too easy.

He draws Craven Edge. The blade makes the beautiful shrill of metal on metal as it is pulled from its scabbard. The very air seems to resonate with that sound and Grog feels the thrumming in his veins already, the seeping darkness gathering at the corners of his mind.

_Finally. So hungry._

The man seems to hear the noise as well, the unmistakable battle-song of approaching death, as he turns to face him. Grog grips the hilt tighter. 

“Run and you die.” Grog spits the words out, tongue feeling heavy. “Stay, talk and you may live to see your family tonight.”

The man, face only now visible in the thin moonlight, looks at him with parted lips. He has dark hair, fine features and tarnished skin. What strikes Grog is the coldness in his eyes, the fact there is something undoubtedly cruel about the way his lips twist into a sneer.

“I don’t have any family.”

Grog grunts, closing the space between them with slow, precise steps. One foot, then another, then another. “That’ll make this all the easier.”

The space between the two is eaten up all too quickly and Grog half wonders if the man will try to fight him. He is standing taller, hands bunching as if readying to throw punches. Part of Grog hopes he does, hopes he gives him an excuse: Bar brawl got out of hand, reached for my blade, happened all too quickly.

_You don’t need an excuse Grog._

Grog snarls and shoves the man into the wall, throwing his free curved first into the man’s nose. He lets out a cry of pain, blood instantly sprouting from the broken orifice - Grog feels a purr of pleasure curl at the back of his mind and once more there is the urge to kill, sunder apart, rip.

“Now, now,” Grog warns as his blood spattered hand covers the man’s mouth, lightning quick, “don’t go shouting and screaming for help. Not a very manly thing to do now, is it?”

The man strains hopelessly against the Goliath’s hand, one arm alone strong enough to restrain him. Grog tsks, brows knitting into a mock frown.

“Struggling, are we? Remember what I said earlier - comply, answer my questions and you’ll be free to leave. Resist and you will find this fine blade buried in your abdomen.”

Grog’s gaze flits down and the man’s slowly follows it. Craven Edge rests with its point pressed lightly against man’s stomach. The shadows have started now, licking their way up Grog’s arm, absorbing the watery moonlight like blood.

“Do we understand each other?”

The man meets his gaze once more and Grog can pinpoint the moment he gives up hope, when resistance crosses into pitiful acceptance. The man nods demurely, his weak struggling ceasing. Grog loves this part; breaking them.

_So do I. Let us make this man weep._

Grog slowly releases his hand.

“That’s a good boy.”

“What do you want to know?” The man’s voice is trembling and fractured, Grog can practically taste the fear. There is no fight left in him.

“The Vestiges. We need to know where they are hidden.”

The man frowns. “But...the Vestiges...they’re fairy tales. Fables. Myths we tell our children-”

Grog pushes forward Craven Edge a little more and the man freezes, swallowing nervously. “I thought you didn’t have any family.” The words come through gnashed teeth, Grog’s patience suddenly stretched so tightly it could snap at any moment. “The Vestiges are _real_. I know. I've seen them. So cut the bullshit. I know you have information. Start talking.”

The man’s eyes have gone wide in panic, pupils dilating. “No, no, I don’t know anything. You have to believe me-”

The shadows are growing, higher and stronger each second. “Well you’ll need to convince me a little better than that.”

“I-I didn’t know, I thought this was about Damien’s- Please, whatever you want I’ll give. Just name it. Money. Jewells. Contacts-”

_He's lying to you Grog._

Craven Edge presses in again, any further and it will start drawing blood. The shadows feel giant, burning cinders and smoke which is rising from his back like wings-

“Tell me the truth-”

Overwhelming anger flares inside Grog’s chest; already his vision is turning red, blinding. But this isn’t right, something is different-

_Steel and suffering is the only language he will understand Grog._

“I am! Please, don’t kill me, _please-”_

Where there is normally fire in his veins there is only ice. Cold, calculating. Grog is burning with it, he cannot think, cannot breathe-

_That's it Grog. Let go._

This feeling is building, roiling beneath his skin. It is something pure and untempered, creeping and caressing yet somehow even more intoxicating than white hot rage.

The ice is overpowering. He cannot fight it. Grog doesn’t care, doesn’t even feel the moment where he tumbles over the precipice, doesn’t realise he is falling and falling and _falling._

The moon is covered. Darkness falls over Tal’dorei. Grog’s world descends into blackness and it is all he knows, all he can breathe and feel and smell and he lives there for lifetimes, eons, eternity he cannot escape cannot imagine a world outside of this shadow because it is everything it is inside him _it is him-_

And just as suddenly as it came, the darkness departs.

The clouds move and light floods down from above. He is back in the alley; why did he think he was in darkness? Grog blinks, vision hazy and blurred. Once it clears the sharp features of the man swim into focus; still, frozen in horror. There is a strange blankness in his eyes and it takes a moment for Grog to register that look because he _knows_ it, sees it all the time, craves it - death. 

This man is dead.

Grog looks down. Craven Edge is buried, deep into the man's sternum. Thick red blood is starting to seep into his shirt. 

How did Craven Edge get there?

Oh. Grog blinks. He put it there.

And with that the blood turns black. 

The effect is instantaneous. The silence shatters like a thunder clap in his mind and it is like wave has knocked into the Goliath. No, not a wave. A storm. A fucking _tsunami_. 

Every nerve, every point of skin, uncovered or not is set alight, burning, crackling with electricity as if Scanlan had sent a lighting bolt straight through his nervous system. Or a thousand. Grog's eyelids flicker uncontrollably as they close, breath stolen away in an instant. His vision whites out for a moment as the sensation, the power of it, the _purity_ demands every bit of his attention. 

He can hear Craven Edge, even know, drinking and rejoicing and practically simpering in this man's essence being taken. Grog knows the experience is a shared one. Something in that makes him moan, makes his back arch, lips torn open as if by the blade itself. 

Grog has to place one hand on the wall to steady himself. His knees feel weak - fucking weak just because he stuck a sword through someone. Yet Craven Edge is there, always there, writhing and caressing and drinking up every last drop.

It is almost too much. This feeling, striking every sense in his body numb from its blinding power…He can't even describe it. Words have never been his strong point yet this, _this_ demands a name. ‘Pleasure’ is not enough. Orgasmic? If so then it is like no sex Grog has ever experienced. This feeling has earned its name, deserves one but he realises that perhaps it is outside the pathetically limited common tongue. What language could describe this?

Whatever it is, the waves of feeling are receding now. Slowly, like a tide going out until only Grog can only feel the gentle, spasming aftershocks. Grog licks his lips.

"I used to describe killing as beautiful," he whispers, slightly shocked at how ragged his voice sounds, "I've never understood it till now."

_Kvathriak._

Craven Edge sounds...raw. The sword’s voice which is usually so smooth, like silk is achingly hoarse. If it were a human Grog would have thought they had been screaming.

“What?”

 _Kvathriak. It is the word for that...experience._ The voice drips in pleasure and contentment.

“You heard me asking?”

_I always hear you._

Grog cannot speak. He feels shaken, undone in a way he has never experienced before. All he can do is draw in shuddering breath after breath, the only sound in the harsh silence. Those four words will be playing in his head for hours, weeks, months. How can something give him so much strength yet also cripple him so utterly?

“Kvathriak.” He tests the word, suddenly uncomfortable with the heavy silence. The word tastes right in his mouth, the harsh vowels slicing through the air like a razor through flesh.

A low, amused hum resounds at the base of his skull. He feels it through his bones. _You say it beautifully._

Grog swallows.

"So that was what you meant then? What you'd been holding back on?" Grog asks, reverence making his voice stick in his throat.

He hears a cool chuckle uncoil; the sound twists and curls around his chest. _Yes. That's exactly what I meant._ There is a pause and Grog can almost hear it licking its lips.

“Huh.” 

The world is still ringing in his ears, sharp and earth-shattering but the next thing Craven Edge says cuts through all the noise and distraction.

_Would you like to feel that again?_

Oh.

Grog looks down at his feet, at the body crumpled on the snow dusted ground. Grog realises with surprise how young he looks. He does not look cruel or evil, just _young_. He didn’t even learn his name. 

The snow is still white, covering the ground like a blanket - there is no blood. Craven Edge...They had drunk it all up, together. Feasted on it. No evidence, no crime, no guilt.

Murder. Grog knows what this is. Murder of an innocent. Pre-meditated. Cold blooded. Even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself Grog’s intention had been to execute that man from the moment he started hunting him. This was why Earth Breaker Groon had called it a dark blade: murder brings the most pleasure. The taking of blood not in battle but in brutality. It should terrify him yet there is a hole in his heart where that fear should rest.

_Kvathriak. The greatest aphrodisiac._

He can almost see their expressions: Scanlan’s shock, Vax’s revulsion, Pike’s disappointment. Grog closes his eyes against the faces of his friends, his family and takes in a long, deep breath.

He opens his eyes.

"When can we start?"

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes....Okay, this was one of those fics I just had to get off my chest. I absolutely adored the Grog and Craven Edge relationship (lasted a pretty impressive 14 episodes considering the whole party was so against it) and although, yes, I was pleased that Grog's life/soul got saved in the 50th I did grieve for the loss of that sword. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a good temptation, come to the dark side arc for a character. And without Pike I really do think Grog could have easily slid into that seductive darkness.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and let me know what you thought! First time writing for this fandom so hope I managed to get the characters' voices down alright. Thank you for reading! :)


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